


Domestic Bliss was (Sometimes) an Option

by drakonous7



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakonous7/pseuds/drakonous7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik love each other. Neither of them will deny that. But sometimes it's those little things that make it hard to remember why...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Bliss was (Sometimes) an Option

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a challenge/prompt that was drawn up, oh, when XMFC came out I think. It was supposed to surround Charles and Erik being older and domestic--and I think beds? Little things like farting when you're asleep or tossing and turning. Little domestic foibles. If anyone actually knows of the prompt, my computer has quite eaten the link. (Since, you know, it sat on my computer half written for those months/years. Charles absolutely refused to be written.)

There were many reasons why Erik chose to stay with Charles through the years. He was sweet and romantic. He would stand up to Erik in his worst moods—and Erik knew he was a melodramatic arse at times—while never raising his voice (unless it was over something so utterly ridiculous, that Charles could not help himself). He liked to make Erik latkes at Chanukah—hell, he tried to _celebrate_ Chanukah. (Which if watching a severely lapsed Catholic trying to celebrate a Jewish holiday was not the funniest thing Erik had ever witnessed that first year, it easily ranked in the top three.) 

Charles also had the unique ability to make Erik think. Erik, pre-Charles, would think of course, but never really looked at his own motivations for things, or rethought his opinions about anything. Having a boyfriend (and later husband) that would follow him and keep asking “why,” like some annoying, pestering little toddler who wouldn’t give up until they got the answer they wanted, made Erik critically think about his perceptions and thoughts and ideals. It also, coincidentally, helped him be a bit more tactful. (Apparently parents did not like receiving the note “your child has utterly no hope of passing this year” on the first report card of the term. Who knew?) 

Yes, Erik did love Charles dearly. For all those reasons. They unfortunately paled at this particular moment however, in the reality of Charles’ complete inability to _share the goddamn covers_ , much less the rest of the bed.

Erik had realized early on into the relationship that they would need a bed that was larger than a queen. The second night in a row of Charles squishing him off the bed (literally) was enough. Until that situation had been solved, Erik had staunchly refused to share a bed for anything other than sex. Even with a king bed the problem persisted, though not as much as it had in times past. (Erik had a prayer of punting Charles back to his own damn side in the king.)

This morning was intolerably cold, the fact that it was February notwithstanding. Erik had always hated the cold. A fact that Charles had picked up on quickly, and made sure that once the first temperature dips started, there were an extra blanket or three piled in the room, fluffy and warm. Which was sweet, and Erik did appreciate the effort. Except that Charles would then _steal all of the blankets._ Erik glared blearily at his husband, warmly ensconced in a cocoon of two fleece blankets, a quilt, and a down comforter. Erik, himself, was lying under a sheet. (Erik swore that Charles subconsciously hated sheets. Why else did they always end up on the _floor_?)

Sighing, Erik maneuvered across the bed, ignoring the slight twinge in his back protesting the movement. He carefully gripped the edge of the blankets that, by rights, _should_ have been covering _him_ , and yanked. He quickly rolled with the movement, anchoring the blankets beneath his body, closed his eyes, and evened out his breath. He heard Charles yelp sleepily. Felt the mattress dip slightly, as his husband grumbled under his breath and scooted closer.

As Charles’ arms came around him, his breath puffing gently on his neck, Erik felt the residual warmth of the blankets luring him back to sleep. His last thought before sleep took him was that he did love Charles, especially a warm, sleepy, snuggly Charles. (And no one ever needed to know that. Ever. Except for maybe Charles. Who knew everything anyway.)

oOOoOOo

Charles was always grateful to whatever deity had steered Erik into his life. In Erik he found someone who would challenge him, excite him, and (though Erik would deny it until his last breath) woo him. He had passion for what he believed in, inspiring those around him to think and get involved with whatever he was discussing that day. His keen mind lived to play out all the angles in every scenario—making him an ideal chess partner. But that same keen mind never failed to poke holes in every single one of Charles’ arguments and/or defenses as tactful and as subtle as a trebuchet.

And his temper! Woe be to the unfortunate soul that crossed Erik Lehnsherr. Erik wielded words with the same cold efficiency of a meat carver. No mercy, no softness, no escape. Charles had been on the receiving end of a few of Erik’s more scathing diatribes, and the metaphorical wounds bled for several days after. Especially since Erik was usually convinced he was right about everything. (And on the very few occasions that Charles decided to go about proving he was wrong, Erik usually sulked like a recalcitrant teenager for a good week. Charles got revenge by subtly pointing out flaws in Erik’s written grammar.)

But beneath all the coldness, bluster, and intellect lay a heart as warm and gentle as a summer’s day. It was Erik that would quietly observe the anniversary of Charles’ father’s death, and plan a large picnic with the children as to distract him. Or attempt to cook Charles’ favourite foods on his birthday. (Something that quickly became one of the others’ responsibility, as Erik kept trying to set the kitchen on fire.) Or calmly sighing when he heard one of the children begin to cry in bed, homesick, and sit with them, usually singing a soft lullaby until the little one was able to drop back off. Charles would watch in warm amusement as Erik usually staggered back to bed afterward, flopping down on top of the covers before sleepily tucking himself under.

Charles reminded himself of how adorable Erik was in those moments, because at that particular moment, Erik was snoring loudly enough that he was surprised one of the children hadn’t knocked on the door in protest. Usually Erik’s snoring was kept to a minimum at night. He got to bed at decent hour most nights, slept on his side, and would try to make sure that Charles fell asleep first. Unfortunately, should he miss any of those three things, Charles was almost guaranteed a sleepless night.

Erik, of course, swore that he didn’t snore—or that if he did, Charles was surely exaggerating the volume. Charles had more than once threatened to record Erik’s snoring on bad nights to prove otherwise. (Erik’s response had been to buy him a tape recorder with a post-it note stating “check.” Erik, Charles had observed, was a bit of an ass.)

Another particularly loud snort, followed by Erik smacking his lips drew Charles’ dark look in his direction. If he was lucky—and when Erik reached _this_ particular volume, he usually wasn’t—he would be able to nudge Erik awake enough to stop the snoring, and then quickly try to fall back asleep before it started up again. Most nights this happened however, found Charles finding refuge in one of the guest bedrooms to try to get some semblance of sleep. (And pray for some kind of catastrophe that prevented him from needing to get up to take care of _anything_ before 10.)

He nudged Erik gently in the elbow. Erik startled awake very easily (small wonder), and so Charles always tried the smallest and least obtrusive methods before escalating. Gaining nothing from Erik other than a nose twitch and another loud snore, Charles tried shaking Erik’s shoulder a bit less gently. Erik’s nose wrinkled, and he gave a sleepy “ _was_?” as one eye slit open.

“Snoring, dearest,” Charles replied softly. Erik winced and rolled onto his side—taking the blankets with him of course. Charles pulled enough blankets to serve as a decent cover, and quickly bedded down to try to catch a few more hours, when the snoring started loudly again. Sighing, Charles pulled his pillow out from the bed and made his way to the guest room across the hall. He had almost fallen asleep when he felt the bed dip, followed by a solid warmth cocooning his back, with two strong hands massaging his scalp.

“Sorry, _schatz_ ,” Erik rumbled, still sleepy, as he continued his ministrations. Charles hummed his forgiveness, quite willing to forgive him of almost _anything_ so long as Erik kept massaging him to sleep. He murmured a sleepy “love you” as his brain finally shut off for the night, hearing a soft “you too,” right before drifting off into blissful rest. (And when the children had burst into the room in mass panic the next morning because they both had “mysteriously vanished,” the bright red that Erik’s ears had turned more than made up for the lack of sleep in Charles’ opinion. But then, Charles was a bit of an ass too.)

**Author's Note:**

> German words (fairly self-explanatory):
> 
> Was=What  
> Schatz=Dear (lit. treasure)


End file.
